


In which Harry Potter checks into Draco Malfoy's heartbreak hotel and learns some things about himself

by Charlotte_Stant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Heartbroken Harry, M/M, POV Harry, draco is a cinnamon roll, harry cannot dance, it is very important that you know that draco has a pet peacock, misuse of DMLE resources, polyjuice, the daily prophet sucks but god it's fun to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28861914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlotte_Stant/pseuds/Charlotte_Stant
Summary: Harry is a mess, drinking his feelings in a dive bar in Knockturn Alley. Draco is there to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 28
Kudos: 214





	In which Harry Potter checks into Draco Malfoy's heartbreak hotel and learns some things about himself

**Author's Note:**

> 2021 is affecting us all in strange ways, I am of course listening to sea shanties like the rest of us, but also was inspired to pull this draft out of storage and polish it up. I hope you enjoy!

Out in the cold, on the pavement of Diagon Alley, Harry’s only thought is that he needs to get _fucked up_. He needs to get obliterated. He had carefully scaled back his drinking, a few years after the war, when he realised he was going to sleep drunk more nights than not, and now he is going to throw all that _progress_ and _growth_ and _healing_ to the winds. He is going to drink until it hurts. He considers, for a fraction of a second, asking Hermione or Ron to join him, and flinches away from the thought. The prospect of their pity is unbearable.

He ends up in Pigfoot’s, a tiny dive bar on Knockturn Alley. He’s never been in before but he’s read about it in the Prophet, in the Crime section. He’s pretty sure the barman is a troll. It’s perfect: there is absolutely no chance he’ll run into any of his friends by accident. He orders three double shots of goblin metheglin and slams them back mechanically, one after the other. 

The honey burn in his throat feels exactly right and there’s a gentle warmth starting at the base of his skull. He settles himself more comfortably on his wobbling barstool, and orders more shots.

An hour later, and Harry is feeling good. His face is going numb and Pigfoot’s is spinning gently around him. He’s also popular, having bought several rounds of shots for everyone in the bar. Even the troll bartender likes him. Or likes his tips, but that’s close enough. He sways gently in place and mouths his favourite Celestina Warbeck song. Ron would cover his face with his hand if he were here, but really, you can’t have Sunday lunch with the Weasleys every week and not have a favourite Celestina Warbeck song, it’s a defensive mechanism as much as—

“Sunday lunch with the Weasleys.” Harry’s mind, suddenly catching up with itself, ricochets off the phrase and he flinches and nearly falls off his seat.

A warm hand grasps his forearm, keeping him in place. That’s—nice. It’s a big hand, pale, long fingers, square nails, beautiful big fuck-off fancy rings—no no don’t think about rings. Whose hand is it, anyway? With effort Harry drags his gaze up to his mysterious saviour’s face. 

“Draco Malfoy,” he whispers, horrified, and this time, if it weren’t for that hand, he really would fall off the barstool.

*****

Harry’s _head_. It throbs vilely in time with his pulse, which he can feel in his eyeballs. He is awake but has no clue where he is, or what happened last night after he—don’t think about La Grotte, don’t don’t don’t—after he ran into Draco Malfoy at Pigfoot’s. He thinks “Jesus fucking motherfucking Christ asshole motherfucker,” and with a huge effort opens his eyes. This, as it transpires, is a tactical error.

Once his nausea is under control, he gropes for his wand and finds it on the mattress next to him. He’s in a bed of some kind, and he’s comfortable and warm and the sheets are soft and clean and smell faintly of cedar. Perhaps he can just… never leave. Keeping his eyes closed, he casts a scourgify on his mouth, and a frescamenti on his body, and wishes profoundly for several pints of water and some hangover potion.

“Oh good, you’re up. I rather thought you had died, and of course that would’ve been _terribly_ awkward for me.” It is Draco Malfoy’s voice, which means he’s in Draco Malfoy’s—flat? It’s definitely not Malfoy Manor, that got Nevered after the war—and very possibly Draco Malfoy’s bed. Harry drags his eyes open again. Malfoy is standing in the doorway, carrying a tray with a teapot on it. Harry is very possibly hallucinating.

He says, “Nnggh.”

“I assume that’s the Gryffindor way of saying ‘Thank you Draco for offering me shelter in my time of need, I realise now that I misjudged you and never truly appreciated your many sterling qualities, and I regret that more profoundly than I can say,’” Malfoy replies brightly, walking over to the bed and setting the tray down on a table. “And yes, this is a hangover potion. Here. Down the hatch, there you go.” He hands Harry a teacup.

The potion takes effect instantly and as the pain and sickness vanish they make room for embarrassment. And awkwardness. Harry’s not even wearing a shirt. Did he…? Did they…? Harry’s not gay, of course, but Malfoy’s dating life is rich and varied, at least according to the Prophet, and Harry was very very drunk. Oh god, he cannot cope with the thought that he might have had sex with _Draco Malfoy_. He feels sick and almost feverish at the very thought.

“Er, last night,” he says. “Did we…? We didn’t…?”

Malfoy goes very still, and suddenly the room feels ten degrees colder. “You’re asking if I had sex with you last night, when you were so drunk you couldn’t walk in a straight line or remember your own address?” His tone is acidic. “No, no I did not. You see, Potter, generally speaking, I prefer my sexual partners conscious. Call it a kink.”

Harry can feel himself flushing. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—it’s just I’m not wearing a shirt, and—“

“That is because you _vomited all over yourself,_ Potter.”

Harry closes his eyes again and wonders if it’s possible to die of mortification. 

After a few seconds, Malfoy speaks again, his voice almost gentle. “Look, Potter. I will tell you what happened last night, all right? I went out perfectly innocently for a drink, only to find the Boy Saviour of the wizarding world there, pissed as a fart and making a scene.”

“I wasn’t making a scene!”

“You were singing A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love to yourself, Potter, loudly, and swaying back and forth and about to fall off your stool.”

Harry makes an indeterminate sound and looks anywhere but Malfoy. It’s a nice room, now his hangover’s gone. Big sash windows letting in floods of sunlight, an antique rug on the floor, a painting over the fireplace of people dancing in the air. He stares at it and strongly considers apparating away mid-conversation. 

Malfoy continues mercilessly. “Acting on some benighted charitable impulse, and because I happen to know Rocky tosses patrons who disturb the peace at his bar into the skip out back, I decided to escort you home. However, when asked for your address you giggled repeatedly ‘You’ll have to find the secret-keeper.’”

“Oh, god.”

“Oh yes. I considered attempting to track down the Weaselette or one of your friends, but in view of my ignorance as to where Gryffindors congregate and also, it must be said, my strong preference to spend as little time and energy on the matter as possible, I decided the best option was to bring you back to mine. I side-alonged you here, narrowly avoided getting vomited on when we landed, cleaned you off and put you to bed. And that, Potter, is all. All right?”

Harry makes himself look at Malfoy, who looks tired and waspish and—kind, Harry realises. “Thank you,” he says carefully. “And I’m sorry about the Celestina Warbeck. Um, did you give me your bed, last night?”

Draco flushes and turns up his nose. “Only because the sofa is immensely uncomfortable and I really couldn’t live with myself if I made a guest sleep on it. Even a horrible unwanted guest like yourself, Potter. There’s something wrong with the springs, I’m going to replace it, I just haven’t found the right piece yet.”

Harry nods. “Um. Thank you.” He’s in Draco Malfoy’s bed, and it’s fine, and he doesn’t feel quite like getting back to the smoldering ruins of his life yet. “Shall we—food?” he suggests.

*****

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy lives in a muggle neighbourhood, and suggests a nearby muggle restaurant for brunch. He tries to cover it but judging from the sardonic glint in Malfoy’s eye he’s not entirely successful. “You know, Potter, I did a dual-enrollment degree, half at Paracelsus and half at UCL. Which, you might not realise, is a muggle university.” There’s a challenging jut to the set of his jaw, and—really? Malfoy, at UCL? Hermione did her law magistry at Paracelsus but never mentioned a dual-enrollment half-muggle option, and surely she would have? Harry’s head is spinning.

“That’s… nice,” he says.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Yes, it is _nice_ , Potter, because aside from anything else it means I am familiar with this _nice_ muggle restaurant where no one is going to gawk at you or try to take surreptitious photos for the Prophet. Now please, decide what you want before I starve to death. The pancakes are excellent.”

Harry gets the pancakes. They’re fluffy, in the American style, and good and hot and served with bacon and maple syrup and a scoop of ricotta cheese. Malfoy gets his with berries and lemon curd. The whole situation is absurd. But not, strangely, uncomfortable. It feels… ok, sitting across from Malfoy like this. They talk about Malfoy’s degree, and muggle inventions they’d like to steal for the wizarding world. Draco makes a passionate argument in favour of the utility and general genius of something called a “smartphone,” and Harry pretends to be unconvinced just to watch his gesticulations grow ever wilder. Until the pancakes are long gone, and Malfoy pauses.

“Right. Harry. Not that this isn’t lovely, but did you want to see today’s Prophet so you can plan a response? Or are we taking more of a head in the sand approach?”

Harry blanches. He has an informal arrangement with the Prophet’s editor, a brainwave of Hermione’s from years back: he gives them anodyne, made-up titbits about his life every month or so—”EXCLUSIVE: HARRY POTTER’S CHRISTMAS PLANS: LUNCH WITH FRIENDS, THEN AN EVENING BY THE FIRE,” that sort of thing—in exchange for their discretion and promise not to print speculation about his career or friendships or love life. He’s pretty sure getting spectacularly dumped in the middle of Diagon Alley means the deal is off.

Grimly, he reaches over the table and takes the paper Draco’s proffering. Most of the front page is taken up with a photo of Ginny, recoiling in horror from Harry and knocking her wine over. Harry didn’t even know they were being photographed. The headline screams “DITCHED BY HIS WITCH! HEARTBREAK SCANDAL FOR BOY WHO LIVED.” Somehow, the article itself is worse.

> The Daily Prophet can exclusively confirm that hero of the wizarding world Harry Potter has offered his heart and his hand to longtime girlfriend Ginevra Weasley—and been REJECTED.
> 
> Harry’s whirlwind romance with Ginevra began seven years ago, in the dying days of the Great War. Hogwarts students both, they solemnly plighted their troth as battle raged around them, and promised to stay ever true to one another. Harry, at least, has kept that vow, and yesterday booked a table at the swank La Grotte eatery, where he planned to propose marriage.
> 
> “He bought an absolutely enormous emerald engagement ring for her,” reveals an anonymous source. “It cost thousands of galleons. He must really love her.”
> 
> But that love was to be callously SPURNED, in full view of dozens of fellow diners. Harry went down on one knee in front of Ginevra, so confident of his success that he had champagne chilling ready to celebrate. Ginevra, however, had other plans.
> 
> “She shrieked ‘No! I cannot, I swear I cannot! My heart belongs to another!’ reports one eyewitness. ‘It was awful, my heart just broke for him. He looked so stunned. Like a clubbed baby puffskein.’
> 
> Neither Harry nor Ginevra has been seen since last evening in La Grotte. A close friend of the couple shares “I can’t believe Ginny has betrayed him like this. I really thought better of her, but I guess she was hiding her true colours this whole time.”

A further article inside bears the headline “WHO IS GINEVRA?” It is somehow even worse. 

> Not much is known about the witch who stole Harry’s heart. Her job as a Wildlife Guardian for the Department of Magical Creatures sees her spending weeks at a time in the field, patrolling the countryside on broomback. “If she wanted to cheat, it would be easy,” claims one source, who asked not to be named to protect his privacy. “She’s barely ever in London.”
> 
> Michael Corner, a Hogwarts contemporary of the couple, is also unsurprised by the split. “At school Ginny had a reputation for being fast, and not just on the quidditch pitch,” he says. “She was always more interested in Harry for his fame than his personality. He couldn’t really keep up with her.”
> 
> Ginevra’s brother, Deputy Head Auror Ronald Weasley, is one of Harry’s closest friends. Reached for comment, he threatened to assault this reporter, and had to be restrained by a companion. It appears his sister’s behaviour is somewhat of a sore point. Only time will tell if Ginevra’s betrayal will cost Harry this treasured friendship too.

Harry looks up, stricken. “Oh fuck. I’ve got to talk to Ron and Hermione.”

*****

Hermione bursts into tears when she sees him, and flings her arms around him. “Harry! You idiot, I’m so glad you’re all right. Don’t you ever do that again,” she says fiercely. Ron punches Harry in the arm and mutters “Pillock,” which is the Ron version of a heartfelt protestation of friendship and relief. Harry has never been so glad to see them.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t realise I would be in the Prophet, if I’d known I would’ve owled you—”

“I owled you,” Hermione says. “I sent patronuses! Where were you?”

“Ah. Well, er. I didn’t wake up till quite late, and at first I guess the wards would’ve blocked any messages. And then I was in muggle London for a bit, so nothing would’ve got through there.” Harry shifts uncomfortably and wishes he could sink deeper into Hermione’s squashy armchair. 

Her eyes bore into him. “Which wards, Harry?”

“Ah. Um. Well. Malfoy’s wards, actually.”

Hermione shrieks “You spent the night with _Draco Malfoy?_ ”

Ron says “Ha!” and elbows her. “You owe me a galleon, Mione.” 

“Not the time, Ronald,” Hermione snaps, and what’s that all about? “Harry, what happened?”

Hermione’s cosy living room has never felt so stifling. Harry is quite sure he would rather be anywhere else on earth. “Well, you know I was planning on proposing to Ginny,” he begins. Hermione and Ron exchange a glance. “And it didn’t go quite how I was hoping, and. Well. I left and I went to get plastered—”

“But you didn’t go to the Leaky!” Hermione interrupts. “Or the Bear and Kneazle, or Abracadabra, or the Sett. We checked with all of them this morning, once we saw the papers.”

Harry winces, and hopes “TEARFUL FRIENDS OF POTTER FEARED FOR HIS LIFE AFTER DISASTROUS BREAKUP” isn’t tomorrow’s lead headline in the Prophet. “I didn’t want to go anywhere I’d meet people I knew,” he explains. “I ended up in Knockturn Alley, at Pigfoot’s. And I drank a lot of goblin metheglin—” 

“Nice,” Ron interrupts approvingly.

“—and got smashed out of my skull. Er, metaphorically, Hermione, no need to panic. And I was too drunk to get home by myself, so when Draco turned up for a pint he took pity on me and brought me back to his flat. And he stayed on the sofa, and this morning he took me into muggle London for brunch, and he was actually really nice and decent the whole time. Did you know he did a half-muggle dual degree? He’s definitely changed, he was really kind and—why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing!” Ron says. “No reason at all, Harry. So… things definitely over between you and Gin, then?”

Harry sighs. “I think so.” He was excited to propose and she was planning their breakup. It seems safe to say they weren’t exactly on the same page. “Is she all right? The Prophet was vicious about her.”

“Ginny’s fine,” Hermione says soothingly. “She’s flown to Wales, she has work she can do there and she’ll be out of the way till this dies down a bit. But are you fine, Harry? You were with her for a long time…”

Harry thinks. It is kind of strange to be single—he’s never been single as an adult, though perhaps that’s strange in itself—but he rather thinks he might enjoy it. Picturing Ginny still makes his chest hurt, but he is surprisingly ok. _Because you never really loved her that way_ , whispers a little voice in the corner of his mind. _Because it was easy, and convenient, but never real._ He ignores it. “I’m all right, Mione,” he says. “Will you help me get the Prophet sorted out, so they get off Ginny’s back? And then… I want to go dancing.”

*****

That evening, standing against the wall in Abracadabra, Harry remembers: he hates dancing. 

He has no idea what he was thinking earlier. Some muddled notion that being single would change his personality, make him into the kind of person who can be carefree and joyous with a stranger on the dancefloor. Instead, he is sipping a virgin pina colada—no repeat of last night wanted, thanks—and watching as Ron and Hermione spin and laugh together. Well, mostly Hermione’s laughing; Ron’s looking at Hermione like she’s the world on a platter. Harry feels a little bit lonely.

“Oh gods, not again, Potter. I hope you have your address written down somewhere this time?” Malfoy has appeared next to him, haughty as ever, holding a drink in a coconut and looking down his nose at Harry. 

Harry sputters. “How the hell—?! I’m polyjuiced!” He double-checks his own forearm and yep, it’s pale and freckled, just as it should be. The spell hasn’t worn off, so how has Malfoy clocked him?

“You have a very distinctive slouch, did you know that? Like someone’s taught a grumpy badger to stand upright and hold a drink. Plus Weasley and Granger aren’t polyjuiced, and you’re staring goopily at them.”

“I am not staring _goopily_ ,” Harry retorts. It’s strange standing next to Malfoy while he’s wearing a stranger’s body. Malfoy looks just the same, of course, except that he has his hair pulled back in a bun and he’s wearing tight jeans and a thin, oversized muggle t-shirt. The neckline is open and sloppy, you can see his collarbones, it’s ridiculous. Harry realises he is staring now, at Malfoy, and quickly looks away.

Malfoy inhales sharply. “Right. I can’t bear this. This is a terrible idea but do you want to dance?” It comes out in a rush, as almost one word. _This-is-a-terrible-idea-but-do-you-want-to-dance._ Harry opens his mouth to say “No,” stops, thinks. He’s not dating Ginny anymore. He’s not on a conveyor belt to a future with a wife and 2.1 kids and a kneazle. He’s not even recognisable as Harry Potter right now.

He can do what he wants, and what he wants is to dance with Draco Malfoy. “I do, but—”

“Fine! Fine.” Draco’s voice is higher than usual. “It was just a suggestion, I’ll never ask anything ever again, that’s fine—”

“No, I mean—I do want to dance, but, um. I can’t really. Dance, I mean.” Harry has plenty of experience feeling painfully inarticulate but tonight is really taking the cake. He cannot look at Malfoy right now or he’ll die.

Next to him he can hear Malfoy exhale. It sounds almost relieved. “Of course you can’t. That’s all right, Potter, because I can. Here.” Malfoy vanishes their drinks, takes his hand (his hand that is not his hand, his hand that is a stranger’s hand, and suddenly he regrets taking polyjuice tonight) and leads him out onto the dancefloor.

*****

Harry is suddenly aware of the bass thumping into his body, the lights strobing through the air, the people packed together all around them. His skin feels electric.

Draco leads them to the middle of the floor, spins Harry round and draws him in close, his back tucked against Draco’s front, Draco’s cheek nuzzling the side of his head. Draco’s hand comes around and rests lightly against his stomach, his fingers spread wide. His rings sparkle. Harry thinks, ridiculously, “Expelliarmus!”

He remembers the Yule Ball during fourth year, how ridiculous and wooden he felt holding Parvati Patil’s waist and trying not to trip over his own dress robes. He doesn’t feel ridiculous now. Draco’s body is warm and solid and it feels easy, somehow, to move with him. Draco’s hand on his stomach guides him, and his hips seem to know what to do, and it feels… good. He tips his head back and grins up at Draco and shouts “I take it back, I can dance.”

Draco smirks. The hand that isn’t holding Harry’s stomach comes up, clasps Harry’s hand, raises it to Draco’s lips. He brushes his lips over Harry’s knuckles and Harry thinks “Yes oh god yes”... and then he feels _someone’s else dick_ start to get hard in his jeans and that yes turns immediately into “no.” 

He feels incredible, he’s just learned at least six new things about himself, but also he really really doesn’t want his first sexual experience with Draco to be while he’s wearing someone else’s body. He pushes away and whirls around, aware he’s breathing hard and probably looks mad. Draco freezes.

Harry feels overwhelmed, and his instincts take over. The wards at Abracadabra don’t let anyone apparate in, of course, but you can apparate out. Which he does.

*****

The minute he’s in his living room at Grimmauld Place he realises he’s fucked up. He can apparate back to Diagon and queue to get into the club again, but by then Draco will probably be gone. He curses, loudly and fluently, and thinks about the best way to say “Sorry I left you on the dancefloor, want to fuck?” 

It seems like a conversation that should be had in person, but he doesn’t actually remember where Draco’s flat is. He knows it’s on a street lined with tall red brick buildings that look like ornate layer cakes, and it’s a five minute walk from a restaurant that does very good pancakes, and UCL is nearby. Unfortunately Harry doesn’t think this narrows it down much, and he’s barely ever in muggle London so he’s not familiar with the neighbourhood.

However. He is Lead Liaison for the DMLE, and yes the role may be largely ceremonial but he’s pretty sure he can still access the Ministry’s confidential address records.

The whole way to the Ministry, Harry is muttering “This is an abuse of power” under his breath. He’s still going to do it though. Into the public toilets, into the stall, onto the commode—never before has the time-consuming ridiculousness of his commute struck him so strongly—into the main hall, completely deserted at this hour; into the lift, up to his office. It’s a nice office, with its own fireplace for firecalls and room for a sofa, which he uses to take naps sometimes. 

He takes his quill and writes “Draco Malfoy’s address” on a bit of parchment, then folds it up, puts it on his palm, and blows gently. It sails off into the hallway.

While he waits for it to return he drums his fingers on the desk and remembers the feel of Malfoy’s hand on him. He doesn’t notice the parchment fly back in, and jumps when it drops down onto his desk. In spidery violet ink, it reads “Flat 5b, Bristol House, 80A Southampton Row, Holborn, Muggle London.” 

“Could a smart phone do _that_ ,” Harry mutters. He grabs the enchanted map of England from the jumble of papers on his desk and starts working out the nearest apparition point.

*****

It’s pouring with rain when Harry arrives in Southampton Row, and his cloak is still at Abracadabra, and there are muggles all around so he can’t take out his wand. At least the polyjuice has worn off and he’s back in his own body again.

He can’t find Draco’s building at first, all the layer cakes look the same, and he’s soaked and cold by the time he’s in the right doorway and pressing the button marked “Flat 5b.” No one answers, and he realises that, once again, he really hasn’t thought this through. He briefly wants to kick himself in the shins. Of course Draco might not be home; he should’ve gone back to Grimmauld Place and sent an owl, he should have—

There’s a crackling sound and Draco’s voice emerges from the panel of buttons. “What do you want, Potter?”

Harry starts. “How do you know it’s me?”

Even through the crackling he can hear Draco sigh. “Superlative powers of intuition, Potter, and also there’s a camera.”

Right. He hesitates. “Can I come up? I’m sorry, it’s raining and I’m freezing—” 

He can hear Draco mutter “Honestly, you idiot,” and then there’s a loud buzz and he can push open the heavy wooden door. He takes the stairs at a run, just because he can, because he needs to move and burn off some of this strange energy or he’ll vibrate out of his skin. He’s breathing heavily when he arrives on the fifth floor. Draco’s door is open and Draco is standing there in the doorway, in a ridiculous pyjama set with piping around the collar and cuffs, and he’s wearing glasses, and his hair is damp and loose around his pale pointy face. 

They freeze for a moment, staring at each other, and then suddenly Harry is crashing into Draco and they’re kissing and Draco’s hands are in his hair, and it feels like being able to breathe after being underwater, the flood of oxygen into his veins too rich and wonderful to handle. Even the click of his glasses sliding against Draco’s is erotic; the feel of Draco’s pyjamas under his hands is unbearable.

“You—Harry—bedroom,” Draco gasps, and the fraction of Harry’s brain that is still functioning is delighted that _he’s_ done that, he’s reduced Draco to sentence fragments. A frantic, shimmering joy fills him as Draco kicks the door shut and pushes him against the wall of the hallway, Draco’s lips on his neck, Draco’s back under his hands. They stagger the few feet into the bedroom and crash onto the bed, still kissing. The weight of Draco’s body on him is even better than he’d imagined and as Harry arches up against him he thinks “Yes this yes this yes.”

Draco hurriedly takes their glasses off and puts them on the bedside table, and begins stripping off Harry’s wet clothes, while Harry fumbles with the buttons on Draco’s pyjamas. Progress is slow because they can’t stop kissing but Harry knows he will die if he doesn’t feel Draco’s skin against his, and finally they’re out of their clothes. He is drunk on arousal and sex and his body is lit up everywhere. “Harry,” Draco says, and groans as Harry touches him, slides his hand carefully along Draco’s length. “Harry, I want—can I—” 

Harry says, “Yes.” He revels in the feel of Draco’s body, warm and hard against him, and even without his glasses on he can see the care on Draco’s face as he prepares them, takes the lube from the bedside table and applies it to his prick and fingers, slides a careful finger into Harry. 

It’s a strange feeling as Draco’s prick presses into him, a fullness Harry isn’t really used to. Draco is braced over him, elbows on the mattress, his face taut. “Is that—Harry, love, are you—”

Harry rolls his hips, experimentally and then again, and oh yes that works, and suddenly they’re kissing again and Draco is moving and Harry is moving with him. It feels like flying, racing through the air with the snitch just ahead and his heart pounding, and he’s gasping as he reaches between their bodies to stroke himself. He arches up as he comes, the orgasm vertiginous. Draco follows him a short while after and collapses on Harry’s chest. They’re both dripping with sweat and as Harry strokes Draco’s hair he is pretty sure he would be content never to move again.

He means to talk to Draco and explain everything but the bed is very soft and Draco is whispering a cleaning charm and pulling the duvet up over them and before he knows it, he’s asleep.

*****

Harry wakes up suddenly, to a distinct feeling he’s being watched. Draco is asleep next to him, beautiful in the morning light, but—Harry grabs his glasses from the bedside table, shoves them on and freezes.

“Draco!” he whispers. “Draco!”

Draco mumbles something and turns over.

“Draco! Wake up!”

Draco rolls over onto his back again, definitely awake now and glaring grumpily. “Oh gods, it’s bad enough you’re a Gryffindor but if I somehow ended up in bed with a morning person I shall cry. I’ll feed you in a bit, Harry, if you can’t last till brunch there’s bread in the kitchen for toast, now—”

“Draco, why is there a peacock on your wardrobe?”

“Peafowl have a strong roosting instinct, Harry. You can hardly expect him to sleep on the floor,” Draco says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Harry blinks at him.

“Why is there a peacock,” he says carefully, “in your flat.”

To his surprise, Draco’s lips twitch. “Harry, meet Tristan. Tristan, Harry. I suppose he was on the balcony the last time you were here.” He reaches out and guides Harry’s head onto his shoulder as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and laces their fingers together, resting on Harry’s chest. “You know Malfoy Manor was Nevered, after the war?”

“Yes,” says Harry cautiously.

“Well. We pensioned off the house elves, of course, and sold the flying horses at auction, but we forgot to make arrangements for the peafowl. So the Neverers had them all delivered to my flat. Funny chaps, Neverers.”

“How many—”

“Thirty.” Draco’s voice sounds distant, as if he’s remembering. “Thirty of the bloody things, all shrieking and rushing around pecking each other. They’re very loud, peafowl, did you know that? And very territorial. I firecalled the Menagerie in Diagon Alley, of course, and they took two of them, but that still left me with twenty-eight.”

Harry fights a smile. “What did you end up doing with them?”

“I got very lucky and found a muggle peafowl sanctuary in Scotland that was willing to take them all and arrange transport. It was slightly tricky because the owners had some very understandable questions about how I came to have twenty-eight peafowl in a one-bed flat, and of course I couldn’t tell them ‘Well, it all began when my ancestral home was sentenced to ritual magic destruction because a genocidal lunatic wizard used it as his base camp in the war,’ but it was all right in the end. Except that when they left it turned out one of the peacocks had been hiding under the bed, and he objected rather strongly to all my attempts to entice him to leave the flat. After a while I gave up trying to rehome him and put a standing order for peafowl feed. And so—Tristan.”

“You’re mad,” says Harry, in tones of deep conviction.

Draco wriggles so Harry is half-lying on top of him, and gently bites his earlobe. “Mm. Well, that’s as may be, Potter, but only one of us interrupted a perfectly nice Sunday lie-in because he had a burning desire to talk about peafowl. But now that we’re up…” He pitches his voice into an exaggeratedly deep, mock-sexy register. “Fancy round two?”

Harry does. After a few minutes Tristan flies down from the wardrobe and waddles regally out of the room.

*****

Draco makes him brunch, after. Well, he makes toast. “We all have gifts in this life, Potter—well, most of us, I have my doubts about some of the Chudley Cannons’ second seven—but mine do not lie in the culinary realm,” he says loftily, and Harry... Harry finds it endearing instead of prattish. He’s screwed. 

He clears his throat. Might as well make it awkward. “Do you know that until about, uh, yesterday evening, I thought I was straight?”

Draco’s eyebrows communicate a certain amount of disbelief, which. Isn’t not fair. “You thought you were _straight?_ ”

Harry coughs. “Afraid so.”

“Well.” Draco is silent for a moment or two. “Honestly, that explains a great deal about our schooldays. There I was, thinking we were both refusing out of stubborn spite to acknowledge the simmering sexual tension between us, and there you were, having no clue at all. Tale as old as time.”

“I did talk about you a lot. If that’s any consolation.”

“None whatsoever, Potter.” Draco looks measuringly at him. “Is that why you panic-apparated out of the club, leaving me there by myself looking, I might say, like an absolute lemon?”

“Ah. Yeah. I didn’t—I liked dancing with you, but I—it felt too strange in someone else’s body, and—”

Draco stares, then holds up a hand, a delighted smile growing on his face. “Potter. You left because you _got an erection?_ ”

“No! I mean yes. I mean… yes, but only because of the polyjuice! I mean, I didn’t… that because of the polyjuice, but—”

“Right, I’m going to stop you there, Potter. I understand what you are attempting, in your own inimitably garbled way, to say. Although I do think you might have said something at the time, rather than leaping away from me and then vanishing.” Draco extends one of his elegant hands and gazes thoughtfully at his fingernails. “Well, there’s nothing for it, Potter. You’ll have to date me. You’re frankly too much of a disaster to be allowed out by yourself.”

Harry takes another bite of his slightly charred toast. It feels like there’s a small sun in his chest, a ball of happiness making him glow from the inside out. “You know. I think I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Half my coven read this in an earlier version and gave their thoughts. It is a stronger fic because of them. Thanks especially to my babes Erin and Ruth.


End file.
